


because I cannot have you

by thegraceinyoureyes



Series: Ransom/Holster tumblr prompts [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Cheating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Jealousy, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 02:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7740157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraceinyoureyes/pseuds/thegraceinyoureyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More and more of the LAX team had been dropping by since Whiskey had befriended them and stopped hanging out at the Haus, and Holster and Ransom had been worried, okay? Like, they didn’t want a frog to feel uncomfortable, or that they couldn’t bring certain friends round - at the end of the day they’re a team, right? So the LAX team had begun to (slowly, cautiously) attend their kegsters. Which is where Holster had met Brian. And why - cooperation, Whiskey, and captain-ly duties aside - Ransom keeps finding himself thinking, privately and viciously: <i>fuck the LAX team</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	because I cannot have you

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to [justasleeplessnight](http://justasleeplessnight.tumblr.com/), who prompted me h/c with a side of jealousy for the boys. I had to restrain myself a bit from making it too angsty ngl, but I’m a sucker for happy ending!
> 
> Thank you to [poindexte](http://poindexte.tumblr.com/) for beta-reading <3333

Ransom feels jittery, on edge and off balance. **  
**

They’d won and it was one of those games, sweet and glorious and _beautiful_ , where everything clicked just right on the ice, and the other team just didn’t stand a chance. It’s his and Holster’s first win as captains—and really, they should be celebrating right now. The rest of the Haus is rammed full of people, all in fucking fantastic moods.  There’s a game of beer pong in the hall, Lardo’s celebratory shout clear above the noise of the crowds, and Bitty is in charge of the music: the heavy bass making everybody a little looser.

Chowder’s on the dance floor with Farmer, her back to his chest. Her arms are looped around his neck as they grind, and his mouth is on her neck, and okay, Chowder deserves it, alright, but this is more than enough of what Ransom needs to see of his goalie’s sex life. He turns away from the sight, his heart rate kicking up another notch. Ransom’s bad mood would make more sense if he was drunk - alcohol doesn’t usually get him down, but it’s been known to happen, especially in the run up to midterms, but tonight he’s still clutching the same can of beer Holster had pressed into his hand some two hours ago.

Before he had disappeared.

Okay, so maybe Ransom _does_ know why he feels like shit.

And maybe it’s completely to do with how Holster’s tucked in a far corner, broad back and shoulders and bright head of hair unmistakable as he crowds another person into the wall. His expression is warm and bright, a smile stretching his mouth wide as he runs a hand along their side. Holster bends down to steal a kiss, and his hand is huge against their jaw. Their hands clasp at Holster’s back as they kiss back, turning it deeper and dirtier. Holster presses himself closer, goes with it, though he’s never been much for PDA in the past.

They’ve been like that for at least half an hour, and honestly, Ransom doesn’t have a problem with it. Or, at least, he _shouldn’t_. 

But, like, he knows who Holster’s with. It’s Brian, the LAX douchebag he’s been seeing with for the better part of two weeks. More and more of the LAX team had been dropping by since Whiskey had befriended them and stopped hanging out at the Haus, and Holster and Ransom had been _worried_ , okay? Like, they didn’t want a frog to feel uncomfortable, or that they couldn’t bring certain friends round - at the end of the day they’re a team, right? So the LAX team had begun to (slowly, cautiously) attend their kegsters. Which is where Holster had met _Brian_. And why - cooperation, Whiskey, and captain-ly duties aside - Ransom keeps finding himself thinking, privately and viciously: _fuck the LAX team_.

And he feels awful about it. Because his best bro is getting laid on the regular, he’s smiling and singing to himself all the damn time, and is generally the happiest that Ransom’s seen him in a long time. Like, he didn’t realise it until- until _Brian_ , but Holster’s been…down,  recently.

Ransom can blame his not noticing on any number of things, but they add up to the fact he hasn’t been there for his bro. This year he’s  been divided between March, the labs, the library, and practise; the delicate balance of his ecosystem is being tested more than ever, and some things were bound to fall to the wayside - but that should never be Holster.

So, it’s a little more than just the LAX dickbag who has his hands all over his bestest of bros. It’s that he’s making Holster happy when Ransom isn’t. That he’s giving him attention, that he’s _there_ for him. When Ransom hasn’t been.

He can’t breathe.

The Haus is his home - it has been for three years. He and Holster have thrown countless parties here - so the crush of people in this familiar house shouldn’t panic him, but it does. Everything is too much. He wants to get out, wants fresh air, wants a dark quiet space to curl up in, wants anything other than to stay here, watching Holster throw his head back, his shoulders shaking with laughter, the lights glinting off his glasses as he smiles - fucking _beams_ \- down at Brian.

Ransom is a terrible friend. And Holster has replaced him.

There’s a hand on his arm, a worried voice calling his name, but Ransom can’t look, can’t see anything but Holster what has he done oh _god_ -

He has to get out - he has to leave - and he’s turning and pushing through the crowds to the stairs - pounding up them, tripping, to the Attic where it is blessedly cool and dark and quiet and his _sanctuary_ and oh god, he’s always thought of this space he and Holster carved out together as his _home_ , how could he have done this to Holster, who’s the most important person in his life, fuck, how did he not even _realise_?

There’s a knock at the door.

Ransom has had anxiety since high school; he knows his own body, and he knows when he’s on the verge of going full coral reef. He can feel everything, the icy tendrils of panic inching their way through his brain, paralysing everything in their wake. His heart rate beats a too-quick, terrified drum against his ribcage. And he can’t even make his body respond.

There are muffled voices.

“-just took off, I don’t know what happened.”

“He looked really freaked, man.”

“It’s okay, I’ve got this. You guys head back down, it’s alright.”

The door opens and shuts, and then Holster’s crouching in front of him. He doesn’t switch the light on, so all’s Ransom’s got to go off is the faint orange glow of the streetlamp outside. It catches the side of Holster’s face, the sweat gathered on his forehead and upper lip, the square line of his jaw, and the blue of his eyes, the pupils dilated. It’s about one am, by Ransom’s measure, and Holster’s been drinking since nine, at least. He’s drunk, and had been with his- He’d been enjoying his night, riding out a win, but  now his gaze is steady and serious. Ransom’s fucking ruined his night.

It’s that thought that sets off another bout of shaking, and - oh god - tears. He buries his head in his folded arms. He can’t look at Holster right now, he just _can’t_.

Gentle hands are rubbing his arms in slow, sure movements, strong and capable fingers dragging over his head and kneading the back of his neck the way he likes. Holster knows him so well.

He realises that Holster’s speaking, after a moment, and forces himself to listen.

“-okay, it’s all okay now, it’s just us. We’re in the Attic, and it’s okay. What happened, hm? It’s months until your first test, and you’re smashing all your assignments. The team is doing great, and we- we fucking won today, Rans.” Ransom can hear the warmth and the pride in his tone, and Holster has been working so hard with the team, working on their plays, that this win means more to him than it does to Ransom. It’s physical proof that they can live up to Jack. That they  can take the team forward. And he’s so happy for Holster, honestly, he deserves to be celebrating right now, not caring for Ransom, who has been such a shitty friend, who doesn’t _deserve_ Holster’s undivided attention

“Is it March?” Holster asks in a different tone. “Did you guys have a fight?”

Ransom had honestly forgotten about March. And that- that is something he needs to revisit in the morning. All he can do now is shake his head mutely.

“Okay, so not March. Is it class?” Another shake. “The…the team?” Ransom pauses - not the team exactly, but _him_ , he’s the problem.

“Is…” Holster’s voice has gone very small, and Ransom wants to look up, wants to see his expression now, but he just can’t. Here, where his face is buried in the dark shadowy crook of his arms, is safer. “Is it me?”

Ransom’s head snaps up in terror. “Holts-“ His voice fucking _breaks_. “Holtzy, you gotta- you can’t think that you have anything to do with this.” He takes a breath, grabbing Holster’s hand and screwing up what little of his courage that remains. “You’re like the best person in my life, man. Never doubt that.”

Holster’s staring at him, eyes wide and lips parted. His tongue darts out to wet them and Ransom tracks the movement, unconsciously. When he looks back up—Holster looks, if possible, more stunned. He should have known Holster would notice - he’s always been observant when it comes to Ransom.

“Rans…”

Ransom knows, in the way he can always tell how much of a bitch a test will be from the TA’s expression, what’s coming next. He feels, rather than sees, Holster’s hand cupping his neck more securely, and the tightening of Holster’s fingers around his own. It’s not a surprise when Holster guides him forward and kisses him, but it’s a revelation.

Before today, his bisexuality was always abstract. Sure, he was vaguely aware he wasn’t entirely straight - finding his gaze lingering on the curve of the guy’s neck who sat in front of him in BioChem, or the pull of a t-shirt over a guy’s shoulders at the gym. Hell, the Kent Parson fanfic stage he and Holster went through was enough of an indication all on its own.

But this isn’t abstract. This is Holster. Holster’s hands on his skin, Holster’s mouth against his own, Holster’s ridiculously large body folded up small enough to crouch between Ransom and the desk. The edge of Holster’s glasses are digging into his cheek, and his hands are gross and clammy, and his heart is still threatening to beat its way out of his chest. Ransom can hardly breath for the joy racing through his veins.

Holster pulls back, gaze bright and dazed.

“Okay so, like,” There are a million and one things Holster could be about to say, but, because he’s Ransom’s best friend and probably knows him better than anyone in the entire world, he asks, “Is that what you were panicking about?”

Ransom can only nod, releasing Holster’s hands to twist his fingers in Holster’s shirt and haul him closer. Holster topples forward, and Ransom lets his legs fall open to accommodate him. Bracing one hand against the bed, Holster holds his weight off Ransom, but allows him to tug Holster as close as possible until Ransom’s face is buried in his neck.

Before he knows it, he’s whispering all his hurt and fear and pain into Holster’s shoulder, as if pressing them into Holster’s very skin will make the anguish stop.

“I’m so sorry, Holtzy, I am, I’ve been such a dick to you and I’m a terrible friend and I so don’t deserve you and-“

“Hey, hey.” Holster pulls back, only a little when Ransom whimpers, grip on Holster’s shirt white-knuckled. “Justin Oluransi. You are the smartest, handsomest, and most exceptional person I have ever met. You are kind, funny and driven as hell. You put up with all my shit, and have never, not even once, let me down. You…” Holster pauses, then seems to fortify himself. “You’re the best part of my day.”

Ransom wants to cry. He feels overwhelmed, and teary, and like his heart is two beats from flying right out of his chest. He swallows past the lump in his throat. Reaches up with trembling hands to hold Holster’s face between his palms. “And you’re the best part of mine.”

Holster leans in to kiss him again and Ransom goes with it, settling Holster’s large frame more securely between his thighs and taking more of his weight. The edge of the bed frame is digging uncomfortably into his neck, but Ransom doesn’t give a flying fuck right now.

But then Holster tries to _climb_ him or some dumb shit, and they slip, and Ransom smacks his head off the bed and shoots upright, dislodging Holster, who bangs his elbow on the desk. They look at each other once, and then burst into laughter. It’s the relief he needed. It completely diffuses the tension and wipes away the urgency crawling under his skin. Holster falls back to lie flat on the floor, kicking out his long legs, and Ransom stretches out next to him. He rests his head on Holster’s outstretched arm, after a beat.

“So,” Holster says, his free hand drawing circles into Ransom’s bare shoulder, “Like, I don’t want to assume anything here.”

Ransom turns on his side so he can see Holster’s face better. “About what?”

Something complicated passes over Holster’s face. “About- about _us_ , bro.”

Oh.

Ransom loves Holster. This he knows with exceptional clarity, with a certainty he usually only has about the ice under his skates, or the moment he opens a test paper and his anxiety vanishes and he _knows_ he’s going to ace it. Holster is his best friend, his guiding star, his _home_. He’d been working up the nerve to ask Holster to come with him next year, wherever he ends up, trying to figure out if that would be too much, even for the boundaries of their friendship, but Ransom knows he won’t be able to make it through medical school without Holster. Not just to look after him when anxiety sets in, but to pull him out of his study spiral, to force him to eat and to manhandle him to bed to watch one of Holster’s shows. He can’t picture his life without Holster. Without his chirping, his singing, his melodrama. Without his quiet thoughtfulness, or how he always, without fail, listens to Ransom, no matter how ridiculous the conversation. Without Holster’s frankly ridiculously large head being the first thing he sees when he wakes up.

Feelings are hard. There is a thick, horrible lump in Ransom’s throat, and his pulse is jagged. But this is Holster.

“I- I want this. I want us to date. I want you to come with me to medical school because honestly I don’t think I’ll survive a week without you. I want to introduce you to my family as my boyfriend, not just my bro. _I want you_ , Holster.”

Fuck, that was a lot of words, and Holster isn’t saying anything. “If, like, you want that too.”

Holster turns onto his side so they’re face to face. His hand settles on Ransom’s hip. “Bro. _Bro_.” And then Holster’s kissing him, hot and breathless, and Ransom presses them together. A burst of joy shocks through him, and they have to stop kissing, they’re both grinning so hard.

“We’re ridiculous.” Holster huffs against his cheek, but doesn’t budge an inch. “And, like, in case that wasn’t obvious, yes. Yes to everything, oh my god.”

He leans in to kiss Ransom again, but Ransom stops, a hand on his chest. “Wait, _fuck_. Bro. _March_.”

And, fuck, Ransom was trying to stop being a terrible person.

Holster pulls back to gauge his expression. “Like, do you want to keep seeing her?” His tone is carefully neutral.

“ _No_!” The vehemence of his own tone shocks Ransom. “Bro, I don’t know if that word vomit made it clear earlier, but you’re kinda it for me.”

Holster beams, and leans in to press a hard kiss to Ransom’s lips. “Okay, so we won’t do anything else tonight, yeah? It’s probably better if we talk about this again in the morning anyway.”

Unable to help laughing at that, Ransom punches his shoulder. “Check you out, man, so mature.”

“Shut up.” Holster pushes back and then Ransom’s on his back, Holster’s thigh between his own. He blames the way he groans and grinds into it on three and half years of unrealised sexual tension. A moan, a high, bright, lovely thing that Ransom immediately labels ‘Get Holster to Make This Noise as Often as Possible’, wrenches itself from Holster’s throat. “Okay, okay, stopping now.”

It’s a moment before he actually pushes himself off Ransom, and it’s a serious exercise in Ransom’s willpower. But Holster knows Ransom, and knows that doing anything more would only add to his guilt. Ransom loves him so much, oh my god.

“Can we, like, cuddle at least?” He asks hopefully.

Holster grins, and offers him a hand to get up. “Ch’yeah, bro.”

They settle in for bed, neither feeling up for returning to the party, on Holster’s bunk. Ransom presses up behind him, an arm curled around Holster’s chest. It is natural, easy even, and he can’t even fathom how it took him so long to realise, that it was only the presence of-

“Wait, Holtzy.”

“Yeah?” Holster’s voice comes, deep and sleepy and Ransom can’t help but drop a gentle kiss on the back of his neck.

“What about Brian?”

“What about him? He was just a hookup, bro. You know, fuck the LAX team.”

Ransom presses his grin into Holster’s neck and breathes easy.

**Author's Note:**

> [come talk to me about these beautiful idiots <3](http://holtzy.tumblr.com)


End file.
